


skies fall, and i remain

by orpheus_under_starlight



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Agender World Guardian, Oneshot, Other, Post-Sliske's Endgame, Sliske as the Runescape equivalent of a Force ghost tethered to their Force-bonded partner, Spoilers for Children of Mah, Spoilers for Sliske's Endgame, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, enemies who are lovers, not as dramatic as an unplanned pregnancy tag usually suggests, the World Guardian took on a title to keep their true name anonymous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28109343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orpheus_under_starlight/pseuds/orpheus_under_starlight
Summary: Their final moment with Sliske was forgotten in the wake of Zaros being denied ascension and Seren hurrying after him, which was perhaps for the better, because directly after that, Jas saidMy agentExplain its endIts legacy within youand the Wanderer stiffened, then froze, then forcibly breathed out, and told the Elder God that Sliske endangered the world, told it of war and hope and love, and was given a mission beyond anything Guthix had ever entrusted to them in return.(Or: the slow-brewing storm clouds on the horizon, and the World Guardian reckoning with their new situation.)
Relationships: Player Character/Sliske (Runescape)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	skies fall, and i remain

The Wanderer’s contentious relationship with Sliske was, above all, incredibly confusing to everyone else. This began before World Guardianship—before Guthix—before, even, the Wanderer themself, as they would discover when they finally had time to sit down with the journals they pilfered from him and discovered their own, true name written down, part of a chilling prophecy they rather wished they hadn’t seen. Even the Wanderer’s Mahjarrat allies had no idea what to make of what went on between the two. Azzanadra did not generally invite such questions from anyone, being far more focused on Zaros, and besides had better things to worry about in regards to Sliske; Wahisietel, the one time someone in search of information to use dared to try him, got a pinched look on his face so severe that the questioner immediately vacated the space, and Kharshai just raised a brow. “Try asking the World Guardian.”

It went without saying that that would not be happening.

If anyone  _ had _ tried, perhaps presuming the Wanderer stupid enough to answer, they got the displeased and distinctly threatening silence of a wholly preoccupied and distinctly ethereal World Guardian.

The thing that has to be understood is this: a transformation as complete as that of the transferral of Guardianship cannot be expected to leave anyone entirely as they were before. The Wanderer, an orphan with no name, had been full of potential even before they were chosen, and in some ways even seemed to be something more than merely human, and it was this that meant that their station took to them as if it had been molded for them—and, following that, the longer they spent in that state, the further their quintessence changed to suit their power, a neverending ouroboros of potential that could never fully be realized. 

This was Guthix’s gift to those he had tried to protect. In being unable to ascend to godhood, the Wanderer was uniquely suited to meddle in the affairs of the gods.

In being unable to ascend to godhood, they became something outside of everything else: not a god, not a mortal, but above all, the multiverse’s most versatile and durable pawn on the board. The Elder Gods could kill them, but nothing less.

Sliske never stood a chance against something so gloriously and deliciously twisted, so delightfully useful to him.

Particularly not when the Wanderer, veiled in shadow from a young age by choice, their eyes possessed of an eternal glow from exposure to the anima mundi, prophesied for a glorious death, took his measure at the Ritual and saw directly into him—and neither recoiled in fear nor wheedled in the petulant vocals of the would-be patsies, but instead watched him for a long moment, and then never  _ stopped. _ It was novel. And Sliske did so love novelty.

That this novelty would lead to them routinely trying to force each other’s faces into the mud of the Mort Myre Swamp in hopes of suffocation did not seem to diminish the mutual obsession they had with one another.

Whatever the shape of their relationship, it seemed clear enough that they were enemies, or rivals at least, by some mad measure of Sliske’s inscrutable motives and the Wanderer’s inability to resist his needling. So when they got into enough of a real fight upon Sliske having his plans ruined that the Staff of Armadyl came out—well—

Neither the Wanderer nor Sliske were stupid. Nor were Seren and Zaros, the only ones to bear witness to this event, but perhaps one of the faults of the children of gods, who are gods themselves, is that they lack a full knowledge of the inner workings of mortals, having far more important things to fill their time with. When the Wanderer staggered as Sliske pushed the Staff deep into their chest, as painfully as they had done to him, it brought them close enough to see his final mocking smile and to hear his last taunting words:

_ “I’ll see you later, darling.” _

It was a message, a threat, and as close to an endearment as he would ever get when it came to the Wanderer. After all, he got what he wanted. His game had achieved its goal.

Sliske did nothing without purpose.

His body crumbled. His soul remained. And the Wanderer stood, and looked distant, but before the siblings (fond, after all, of the one who brought them back and restored them in fullness) could approach them there was Jas, and then there was no time left for questions from anyone else. Their final moment with Sliske was forgotten in the wake of Zaros being denied ascension and Seren hurrying after him, which was perhaps for the better, because directly after that, Jas said

_ My agent _

_ Explain its end _

_ Its legacy within you _

and the Wanderer stiffened, then froze, then forcibly breathed out, and told the Elder God that Sliske endangered the world, told it of war and hope and love, and was given a mission beyond anything Guthix had ever entrusted to them in return. 

But they were not summarily dismissed. Uneasy, they looked around the place-that-was-not. “Was there something else?”

_ My agent _

_ Its legacy _

“Oh, that.” They shifted on their feet. “You consider Zaros a child. The child of Mah.”

_ Yes _

“It’s like that.”

_ Explain _

“Zaros is the child of Mah. And what grows within me is the child of Sliske.”

_ This, too _

_ It is common? _

“It is. Though maybe not this particular one...”

_ Again unexpected _

_ We shall see what becomes _

_ Leave now _

—and with that, the Wanderer blinks and is on the surface of Gielinor again.

There are several questions, later. After Linza and after Armadyl is Seren, in the Tower of Voices, one of many friendly faces. The Wanderer is on good terms with Seren, appreciates her followers’ teachings; why they are cared for by her sometimes still feels baffling, even with the service they have done for the elves and their connection to Guthix. Maybe it’s the power of the World Guardian, since the Ring of Charos doesn’t seem to affect the gods—not that the Wanderer would try, but one must think ahead to stay in the game, whether they want to be there or not.

Seren is grace. Jas said Seren was nothing, but could be more; the Wanderer sees that in her, the full power of the child of an Elder God seeming almost benign in comparison to a full Elder itself. But gods are not impartial. Particularly not Jas, it seems. Seren hums as she considers what the Wanderer has told her and the crystal around them sings back in return. In the city of Priffdinas there is love: between Seren and the elves, between the elves and the city, between the crystal and those it houses. Jas’s domain had been—it had  _ not _ been. It was an absence unlike the Abyss or the Void with sand dripping down from an impossible height above, so deep beneath the surface of Gielinor that they might well have frozen over if Jas had not been sustaining breathable, temperate air in a concession to their physical frame.

And Seren, when she regards the Wanderer, is warm in her sympathy. As much as a god can be. “I will be your ally, Guardian, for what little that may be worth. Mortal life is brief—but it is beautiful. You have my help when the time comes.”

“Thank you,” the Wanderer says, rubbing their eyes. “Personally, I’m rather shocked I didn’t end up bound to an Elder Artefact either.”

“As I said, you did well. There have been few before you that I am aware of to have not ended up bound to their service—even Sliske, it seems. Who would have thought someone such as him to be Jas’s agent?”

The Wanderer shakes their head. “Who indeed.”

But Seren is not fooled; she peers at the Wanderer. “You were close to him. How are you faring, given everything?”

“Close,” the Wanderer echoes. They could be called that, they suppose. 

“It is strange, given that you were the one to kill him,” she acknowledges. “But from my observation, it seems to have been the case. Am I wrong?”

A god asking after their error is a trap waiting to be tripped. The Wanderer wobbles their hand regardless. “It was always going to be him or me. I’ve been prepared for this for a long time.”

“I see,” Seren muses, looking thoughtful, and they do not ask after her thoughts. Not on that.

They return home in the early hours of the morning. No place in Gielinor is untouched by the gods, and no place is far enough away from them, and so in the absence of that choice (they do not think Hazelmere’s spirit would take well to them taking over his house—it’s gnome-sized, anyways), in a time that seems as far away from the present as their prophesied future death does now, they chose a small place in Priffdinas’s most secluded neighborhood, nestled up against the wall closest to the ocean. Best to rest where you are wished relatively well. Their home is moonlit and its shadows weave hazily in and out of the garden gate, which sits ajar. This is expected. They step out into the garden: nothing is amiss. The wisteria are growing well on the trellises set up against the wall, the camellia’s bright shock of pinks and reds dulled to dusky imitations of their full glory; the mushrooms they carefully cultivated from that haunted mine glow on the hollow log, and the trees and flowerbeds sit stalwart and leafy against the dark of not-yet-day.

As they stand in their doorway, they feel someone’s breath on their hair, someone’s warmth against the line of their body. This, they reflect, is no surprise. “Sliske.”

“Well played,” he tells them, sibilant, his hands on their hips in what would almost pass for intimacy if it weren’t for the fact that he is only ever generous when things have gone exactly as he wished for them to. “A stunning performance. Why, I almost believed you myself—”

“It wasn’t you Jas detected,” the Wanderer interrupts, unable to help themself, and smiles spitefully when he stills.

“Is that so.”

They incline their head. “You could believe it because I wasn’t lying.”

“Hah.” He pulls away from them and paces into the darkness of their home, shadowy robes shifting with every step. It’s a nice touch. Trust Sliske not to skimp on the details. “A child. Fine bit of dramatic irony, that. If I had known—”

“You would have tried to kill me,” the Wanderer says. This does not perturb them. Many people have tried to kill them, even loved ones. 

Sliske considers that. “The end result  _ does _ rather end up being the same, doesn’t it.”

“Like I said. It was always going to be you or me.”

“Oh,  _ my dear,” _ he sneers. “Just wait. I’m not out for the count yet.”

The Wanderer turns, then, and can see his faint outline, the quintessence of himself that he managed to transfer into them with the Staff. “So what? You feed on me as a parasite until the time comes for your glorious rebirth?”

“Nothing so banal. You’ll just have to wait and see. In the meantime...”

They wait. Sliske doesn’t disappoint. He holds out one clawed hand to them and sighs dramatically when they look at it like it offends their senses.

“Please—what harm can I possibly do to you in this state? Don’t answer that,” he says, one finger against their lips as they open their mouth to respond. “While I’m here, I ought to make you breakfast. It was quite a night, after all.”

The Wanderer pinches the bridge of their nose. “I should kill you again.”

“Oh, as much as you like. Again and again, so long as I get to do the same to you,” Sliske purrs. He leads them into their own kitchen, and gods only know how, but he seems to have a half-corporeality of sorts, because he does, in fact, cook. And quite well, too. “You humans with your insistence on ingesting physical matter. I’ve never understood it, personally. Much easier to sustain oneself with magic...”

“Where did I put my holy symbol?” they ask, rhetorical.

Sliske sighs, put upon, as if  _ they _ are the one being difficult. “Come now. We’ll be in this state for some time—best get used to it now. After all—” he pauses, coy, and they know they’re going to hate whatever it is he says next—”we are a  _ family, _ now.”

“No.” Their denial needs no explanation and Sliske is unbothered. In fact, he smiles.

“Roommates, then,” he suggests, as if this is some banal living arrangement and not the precise, hoped-for outcome of his machinations, with the added bonus of being able to torment the Wanderer whenever he pleases. 

They throw him a skeptical look. “What kind of sick bar joke is that?  _ A Mahjarrat and a World Guardian bind themselves together in unholy transubstantiation... _ Get better material.”

“I’m offended,” he says, mild. Always dangerous. Usually preceding something they won’t like hearing. “I’m not  _ unholy. _ Just wicked. Much like you, my dear, throwing in your lot with me and keeping it all hush-hush.”

It's a softball by his standards.

“Does the banner mean nothing to you?” They gesture at the holy tapestry emblazoned with the symbol of Guthix, carefully hung up behind the kitchen table, to avoid letting him see how he’s hit his mark regardless of the easy target. They have kept the details of this dirty little secret of a relationship and their friends distinctly apart, after all. Azzanadra would be terribly disappointed. Wahisietel—well, he probably knows, or at least suspects. Outside of them, he knew Sliske best. 

Sliske doesn’t even pretend to spare the tapestry a glance. If he knew where everything in their house was and what that meant, they wouldn’t be surprised. “Not particularly, no; I did kill him, after all. And what a glorious death it was.”

“I’d say I got my vengeance, but somehow I think I need more,” they mutter.

“Careful now,” he sing-songs. “Revenge is  _ such _ a slippery road, after all.”

They think about the life growing in their womb—what form it might take, what hardships it might bear, should they choose to bring it into the world. Having a child is a worse idea for many more reasons than it is a good one. There is no telling how it will affect their power, their standing, their ability to fight... but a vacation sounds nice, and the world stage seems to have closed the curtains on the middle act of this era’s play, which should afford them some time, and that is a thought that sounds an awful lot like Sliske, and that in and of itself is disturbing. He laughs, smug, and the sheer level of it only intensifies when they try to throw a wooden bowl at his head and it flies through and hits the wall. “Stay out of my head.”

“I’ve never done that, and I don’t plan to now,” Sliske says with that same infuriating smile.

Instead of responding, the Wanderer looks down at their plate of eggs and bacon, says, dryly, “If only you had poisoned this,” and eats their breakfast.

The abject insanity of their situation only strikes them days later, when, talking to Azzanadra, who can clearly sense _ something  _ about them by the odd looks he keeps throwing their way, they realize that at whatever point Zaros comes back to Gielinor, he’ll want an explanation from them.

_ Fuck, _ they think, and they hear Sliske laugh in the back of their mind, completely unhelpful.

“Azzanadra,” they say when he stops talking, “I need to see Wahisietel. He isn’t in Nardah—”

“Ah.” Azzanadra pauses for a moment. “He’s relatively nearby, in Kharyll. Likely the place your kind calls Burgh de Rott. Might I ask why?”

The Wanderer gives him a weary look. “You’ve probably got as good a hunch as I do.”

“...Ah. Well.” He clears his throat. “Young in our race are quite rare, and I cannot say I did not suspect anything—I am sorry for your loss, but it is quite fortuitous that you would bear this child after its father’s death—and if you need anything—”

“Thank you, Azzanadra,” they say, rubbing their temples. “I will keep that in mind. And probably take you up on it. Though given whose child it is, and what he did...” to your brother, they don’t say, and Sliske is suspiciously silent, so they make a mental note to investigate that later, but Azzanadra shakes his head.

“We live in a different time from that of my youth. Khazard was not sacrificed, Moia was left unharmed, and we no longer need to trade in destruction to sustain ourselves. Mah is dead. I bear no ill will toward your child. Their own actions will decide whether they are friend or foe.”

It’s sentiment, and the Mahjarrat when they first met them were hardly known for such things. Still, the Wanderer nods, impressed. “I can respect that.”

Azzanadra inclines his head. “Was there anything else?”

“Not right now. I’ll be back later.” They try not to think of how his attitude might change if he knew Sliske still lived on, and with a few formalities they depart, off to break the news to Wahisietel. 

**Author's Note:**

> i want sliske to raw me
> 
> I have been in desperate need of Sliske/World Guardian fic and I finally broke down and wrote my own. Think of this as a snapshot, a moment in time, rather than a sustained beginning to an oncoming arc. I left the threads open, but I'm not going to follow them right now--just needed to get this out of my head. :)


End file.
